


Just a Little Death

by Lyssandra_Med



Series: One-Shot [43]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Myths and Legends, Death, F/F, Fluff, Grim Reaper Bellatrix, Lesbian in a Suit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22302994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssandra_Med/pseuds/Lyssandra_Med
Summary: Living with Death was never one of Hermione's plans.Turns out Death likes cute kittens and sleeping in on the weekend.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Series: One-Shot [43]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1429282
Comments: 13
Kudos: 152





	Just a Little Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raven_Tonks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raven_Tonks/gifts).



> Just a fluff thing. Unedited

“The Throne of Death. Are you for real? That’s what you call it?”

“Yes. It’s quite fitting, isn’t it?”

_ ‘No,’ _ Hermione mused,  _ ‘It really, really isn’t.’ _

That wasn’t to say that the Throne itself wasn’t haunting to look at, or that it was bad in any way. It just seemed that the title was ill-fitting, almost an afterthought. It just hadn’t  _ earned _ that moniker. Yes, it was a throne. And yes, to that end it was magnificent and tall and looming and all the myriad things that made the one standing at the foot feel small and insignificant. The building material was likewise enhanced with bones and skulls and little bits of things that Hermione most definitely did not want to dwell on for too long.

And yet it all failed to scream  _ terror. _ Or at least it failed to impose itself in such a way that could leave Hermione shivering in fright. The Throne just…  _ was. _

Bellatrix smoothed down the lapels of her ink-black suit, free hands patting down along all the hair pulled back close to her scalp and scowled.

“You don’t like it, do you? I knew I should have gone more Eldritch in design.”

“No, no, no,” Hermione backpedalled with hands raised in mock surrender. “I’m not saying it isn’t beautiful, and for a throne it’s really,  _ really _ big. It’s just… Well,  _ Throne of Death? _ Really?”

Really.

But then again what had she been expecting exactly? What image had Hermione really built up after finding out that the woman of her dreams was really an infinitely old corpse being ridden around by the incarnation of Death? Any modicum of proportion that Hermione had attained after twenty-five years of life was undone in an instant, each and every toehold of reality that she had grasped onto was  _ gone. _

Reality all come undone.

Bellatrix was as suave as any gentleman, a perfect dream for Hermione’s not-so-easily-swayed heart.

Bellatrix was as beautiful as any runway model, had stoked all the fires of Hermione’s latent gay-awakening.

Bellatrix was absurdly morbid in a way that left Hermione laughing in the face of harsh obstacles and frightening moments.

Bellatrix was Death, and Death had asked Hermione to move in.

“Nope, you’re overthinking it again, aren’t you? I can see it.” Bellatrix frowned now, a sigh escaping past her lips as she sank down atop her Throne. Long legs crossed one another, fingers wrapped tightly over a knee and left foot bobbing erratically. “Look, I’m still the Me you fell for, I’m just also a Me that happens to exist outside of normal time and space. I  _ am _ the woman you fell in love with-”

“I know you are Bellatrix.” Hermione hadn’t intended to interrupt the woman, but that line of thinking was perilously close to self-reassurance and Hermione  _ needed _ Bellatrix to understand that she was fine with this. Surely the uncertainty came with the territory, but she could allay that somewhat, at least.

“I’m sorry I seem conflicted, it’s all that this is just a bit much. Besides, I’m more than a little flustered by your style of dress. You never wore a suit for me before.” Hermione looked up at her love, sitting on her Throne and lips slowly rising into a smile.

“Ah, true. Best I look the part for work though, wouldn’t want to be considered unprofessional. But it  _ is _ a bit much. Incredibly restrictive as well.” Bellatrix rose up from her seat to descend the ribcage-lined walkway. When they at once again on level ground, Bellatrix wrapped Hermione up into a crushing hug, “What say you and I go to sleep? Relax some? It’ll help you get used to it, I think. One day at a time.”

One day at a time. Surely Hermione could do that, right?

Hermione nodded as she leaned into Bellatrix’s neck, hands gripping the silken suit jacket and toes tapping gently against the immaculately shined oxfords.

“Sure.”

\---

Living with Death was nothing at all like what Hermione had been imagining back when Bellatrix had first asked her to move in. It wasn’t a very frightening living situation, nor was it cold or damp or filled with the relentless screams and wails of the damned and dead.

It was normal.

_ Mostly. _

Even if Bella did surprise her by loading her coffee with far too much sugar, and a hefty dose of cream.

The little inconsistencies between her expectations and the realities were amusing whenever Hermione found herself confronted by them. And eventually, with time and love and care like no other, the inconsistencies simply became the way things were. Bellatrix would leave for days in order to reap souls, but Bellatrix also loved to flop down upon the couch in a pair of too fluffy fleece pants and a tank-top that was three sizes too large and hair all pulled back into a messy bun. Bellatrix loved talking about her job, but she also loved chips and sweets and all manner of junk food. Bellatrix would spend hours deliberating about where to assign someone in their un-life, but Bellatrix also made an incredible breakfast spread. 

Bellatrix sat atop her Throne, wore dark suits or cloaks that seemed to wreathe her like a second skin.

Bellatrix liked warm kisses, sharp bites, and the comforting feeling of sleeping nude with her beloved partner at her side. Or atop her, whenever Hermione rolled and rollicked.

Bellatrix was Death, and yet she was still so full of love.

Bellatrix was a Goddess, and yet still Hermione’s wife.

Not that the accomplishment of that title had been easy for them to acquire. Finding themselves a Priest down below would have been easy, but their reasons for being there were horrid enough that neither would entertain the idea. Instead, eventually, they had happened upon a lovely couple in New York that hadn’t even blinked an eye at their materialization and heaps of questions.

It seemed that a chance to visit the afterlife was more than enough payment for them both.

\---

“So, you still think it’s overdone?” Bellatrix murmured her question against the skin of Hermione’s neck, teeth nipping a line upwards towards her jaw.

Hermione relaxed into the touch, the bite, the hands that threaded through her own mane of wild curls and frizz, “No. It’s just fine by me.”

“You’re just saying that so I’ll fuck you.”

“Maybe,” Hermione conceded with a lilting smile. “Maybe not.”

Bellatrix’s nails left pinpricks of pain along the edges of Hermione’s thighs as she moved to cup at a heat that never seemed to end.

“Maybe not?”

“Mhm,” Hermione replied, her body bucking upwards in search of friction and desire.

“Well Pet,” Bellatrix ground down, speeding up her movements. “How about we bless it with one more Little Death.”


End file.
